Bradbury, Ray - SSC 13 (7 page)

 
          
“Like
this,” said Lantry. “You see?”

 
          
The
knife slid into the chest. The man stared at it for a moment. Lantry caught the
falling body.

 
          
III

 
          
The
Salem
flue exploded at six that morning. The
great fire chimney shattered into ten thousand parts and flung itself into the
earth and into the sky and into the houses of the sleeping people. There was
fire and sound, more fire than autumn made burning in the hills.

 
          
William
Lantry was five miles away at the time of the explosion. He saw the town
ignited by the great spreading cremation of it. And he shook his head and
laughed a little bit and clapped his hands smartly together.

 
          
Relatively
simple. You walked around killing people who didn’t believe in murder, had only
heard of it indirectly as some dim gone custom of the old barbarian races. You
walked into the control room of the Incinerator and said, “How do you work this
Incinerator?” and the control man told you, because everybody told the truth in
this world of the future, nobody lied, there was no reason to lie, there was no
danger to lie
against
. There was only
one criminal in the world, and nobody knew HE existed yet.

 
          
Oh,
it was an incredibly beautiful setup. The Control Man had told him just how the
Incinerator worked, what pressure gauges controlled the flood of fire gases
going up the flue, what levers were adjusted or readjusted. He and Lantry had
had quite a talk. It was an easy, free world. People trusted people. A moment
later Lantry had shoved a knife in the Control Man also and set the pressure
gauges for an overload to occur half an hour later, and walked out of the
Incinerator halls, whistling.

 
          
Now
even the sky was palled with the vast black cloud of the explosion.

 
          
“This
is only the first,” said Lantry, looking at the sky. “I’ll tear all the others
down before they even suspect there’s an unethical man loose in their society.
They can’t account for a variable like me. I’m beyond their understanding. I’m
incomprehensible, impossible, therefore I do not exist. My God, I can kill
hundreds of thousands of them before they even realize murder is out in the
world again. I can make it look like an accident each time. Why, the idea is so
huge, it’s unbelievable!”

 
          
The
fire burned the town. He sat under a tree for a long time, until morning. Then,
he found a cave in the hills, and went in, to sleep.

 
          
He
awoke at sunset with a sudden dream of fire. He saw himself pushed into the
flue, cut into sections by flame, burned away to nothing. He sat up on the cave
floor, laughing at himself. He had an idea.

 
          
He
walked down into the town and stepped into an audio booth. He dialed OPERATOR.
“Give me the Police Department,” he said.

 
          
“I
beg your pardon?” said the operator.

 
          
He
tried again. “The Law Force,” he said.

 
          
“I
will connect you with the Peace Control,” she said, at last.

 
          
A
little fear began ticking inside him like a tiny watch. Suppose the operator
recognized the term Police Department as an anachronism, took his audio number,
and sent someone out to investigate? No, she wouldn’t do that. Why should she
suspect? Paranoids were nonexistent in this civilization.

 
          
“Yes,
the Peace Control,” he said.

 
          
A
buzz. A man’s voice answered. “Peace Control. Stephens speaking.”

 
          
“Give
me the Homicide Detail,” said Lantry, smiling.

 
          
“The
what?
”

 
          
“Who
investigates murders?”

 
          
“I
beg your pardon, what are you talking about?”

 
          
“Wrong
number.” Lantry hung up, chuckling. Ye gods, there was no such a thing as a
Homicide Detail. There were no murders, therefore they needed no detectives.
Perfect, perfect!

 
          
The
audio rang back. Lantry hesitated, then answered.

 
          
“Say,”
said the voice on the phone. “Who
are
you?”

 
          
“The
man just left who called,” said Lantry, and hung up again.

 
          
He
ran. They would recognize his voice and perhaps send someone out to check.
People didn’t lie.
He
had just lied.
They knew his voice. He had lied. Anybody who lied needed a psychiatrist. They
would come to pick him up to see why he was lying. For no
other
reason. They suspected him of nothing else. Therefore—he must
run.

 
          
Oh,
how very carefully he must act from now on. He knew nothing of this world, this
odd straight truthful ethical world. Simply by looking pale you were suspect.
Simply by not sleeping nights you were suspect. Simply by not bathing, by
smelling like a—dead cow?—you were suspect. Anything.

 
          
He
must go to a library. But that was dangerous, too. What were libraries like
today? Did they have books or did they have film spools which projected books
on a screen? Or did people have libraries at home, thus eliminating the
necessity of keeping large main libraries?

 
          
He
decided to chance it. His use of archaic terms might well make him suspect
again, but now it was very important he learn all that could be learned of this
foul world into which he had come again. He stopped a man on the street. “Which
way to the library?”

 
          
The
man was not surprised. “Two blocks east, one block north.”

 
          
“Thank
you.”

 
          
Simple
as that.

 
          
He
walked into the library a few minutes later.

 
          
“May
I help you?”

 
          
He
looked at the librarian. May I help you, may I help you. What a world of
helpful people! “I’d like to ‘have’ Edgar Allan Poe.” His verb was carefully
chosen. He didn’t say ‘read.’ He was too afraid that books were passé, that
printing itself was a lost art. Maybe all ‘books’ today were in the form of
fully delineated three-dimensional motion pictures. How in blazes could you
make a motion picture out of Socrates, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and Freud?

 
          
“What
was that name again?”

 
          
“Edgar
Allan Poe.”

 
          
“There
is no such author listed in our files.”

 
          
“Will
you please check?”

 
          
She
checked. “Oh, yes. There’s a red mark on the file card. He was one of the
authors in the Great Burning of 2265.

 
          
“How
ignorant of me.”

 
          
“That’s
all right,” she said. “Have you heard much of him?”

 
          
“He
had some interesting barbarian ideas on death,” said Lantry.

 
          
“Horrible
ones,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Ghastly.”

 
          
“Yes.
Ghastly. Abominable, in fact. Good thing he was burned. Unclean. By the way, do
you have any of Lovecraft?”

 
          
“Is
that a sex book?”

 
          
Lantry
exploded with laughter. “No, no. It’s a man.”

 
          
She
riffled the file. “He was burned, too. Along with Poe.”

 
          
“I
suppose that applies to Machen and a man named Derleth and one named Ambrose
Bierce, also?”

 
          
“Yes.”
She shut the file cabinet. “All burned. And good riddance.” She gave him an odd
warm look of interest. “I bet you’ve just come back from Mars.”

 
          
“Why
do you say that?”

 
          
“There
was another explorer in here yesterday. He’d just made the Mars hop and return.
He was interested in supernatural literature, also. It seems there are actually
‘tombs’ on Mars.”

 
          
“What
are ‘tombs’?” Lantry was learning to keep his mouth closed.

 
          
“You
know, those things they once buried people in.”

 
          
“Barbarian
custom. Ghastly!”

 
          
“
Isn’t
it? Well, seeing the Martian tombs
made this young explorer curious. He came and asked if we had any of those
authors you mentioned. Of course we haven’t even a smitch of their stuff.” She
looked at his pale face. “You
are
one
of the Martian rocket men, aren’t you?”

 
          
“Yes,”
he said. “Got back on the ship the other day.”

 
          
“The
other young man’s name was Burke.”

 
          
“Of
course. Burke! Good friend of mine!”

 
          
“Sorry
I can’t help you. You’d best get yourself some vitamin shots and some sun
lamps. You look terrible, Mr.—?”

 
          
“Lantry.
I’ll be good. Thanks ever so much. See you next Hallows’ Eve!”

 
          
“Aren’t
you the clever one.” She laughed. “If there
were
a Hallows’ Eve, I’d make it a date.”

 
          
“But
they burned
that
, too,” he said.

 
          
“Oh,
they burned everything,” she said. “Good night.”

 
          
“Good
night.” And he went on out.

 
          
Oh,
how carefully he was balanced in this world! Like some kind of dark gyroscope,
whirling with never a murmur, a very silent man. As he walked along the eight
o’clock evening street he noticed with particular interest that there was not
an unusual amount of lights about. There were the usual street lights at each
corner, but the blocks themselves were only faintly illuminated. Could it be
that these remarkable people were not
afraid
of the dark?
Incredible nonsense!
Every
one
was afraid of the dark.
Even he
himself had been afraid, as a child. It was as natural as eating.

 
          
A
little boy ran by on pelting feet, followed by six others. They yelled and
shouted and rolled on the dark cool October lawn, in the leaves. Lantry looked
on for several minutes before addressing himself to one of the small boys who
was for a moment taking a respite, gathering his breath into his small lungs,
as a boy might blow to refill a punctured paper bag.

 
          
“Here,
now,” said Lantry. “You’ll wear yourself out.”

 
          
“Sure,”
said the boy.

 
          
“Could
you tell me,” said the man, “why there are no street lights in the middle of
the blocks?”

 
          
“Why?”
asked the boy.

 
          
“I’m
a teacher, I thought I’d test your knowledge,” said Lantry.